Routine
by Ykarzel
Summary: n. 1. A prescribed and detailed course of action. 2. A set of customary and often mechanically preformed procedures or activates. –adj. 1. In accordance with established procedure. 2. Not special; ordinary.


**Routine**  (rōō­tēn')  n. 1. A prescribed and detailed course of action.  2. A set of customary and often mechanically preformed procedures or activates.  –adj. 1. In accordance with established procedure.  2. Not special; ordinary. _–American Heritage Dictionary_

Life is just a bunch of routines.  They come as general as after birth comes death, to as specific as the precise way you spread your toothpaste every morning.  But the truth is, life is not about love, or knowledge, or success, or happiness, life is just routines.  

Which is why, on the morning after it happened for the first time, I got up.  Because you see, even if the number on the clock is different every time I do it, I still always get up after I am asleep.  And so, I got up.  And despite the physical pain and emotional numbness, I followed my normal routine. 

I don't shower in the morning, you see, so it never occurred to me to take one.  I changed my clothes, ignoring the blood stains because they weren't part of this particular routine.  Once clad in my school uniform, I brushed my teeth like normal, spreading the tri colored toothpaste from the tip to the end of the bristles and running a bit of cool water over it.  I'm not sure why I always run water over it, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with a routine.  

Once freshened up, I stuffed my books into my bag like normal, grabbed a piece of hastily buttered toast and walked out the door.

So if anybody ever wonders how I got through it the first time, that was what I did.  I walked into the classroom, just in time, and sat down.  After all that, it was the sitting down that finally broke through the auto pilot that my morning had been.  Because sitting down had caused a fiery burn in my lower back, and I felt a bit of liquid that wasn't my own seep into my boxers.

Dirty.  I felt very suddenly dirty.  I shuddered, but there was nothing I could do, nothing I could say, and so the teacher started talking, and I half listened. 

That day became the next, and then that week ended, and that was it.

But routines you see, they repeat.

~*

If you were a stranger, you wouldn't know it.  Walking into our apartment is just like any other single father's place raising a kid.  Scruffy, with corners that are long overdue for a sweep, food long spoiled breeding in the fridge, and rings on all the furniture from beer bottles and soda cans sat down without coasters.

I don't know what changed the day that my father first hit me.  I had talked back to him, but I had done that before, but it was different this time, the routine had changed without my knowledge and stinging pain laced across my cheek.  And that was the way it was for a week or a month.  I misbehaved and received smack, a hit, until it altered again, to a punch, or a kick.  

It's not like in the movies really.  He never beat me within an inch of my life, or stabbed me with a broken beer bottle.  He was never in a drunken rage because even though he drank all the time, Dad didn't get drunk that often.  He'd just be pissed, and hit my arm, and it would hurt.  And a few hours later a bruise would form.  Or he'd be angry, and shove me down, and his shoe would collide with my side, and it would hurt, and a few hours later a bruise would form.

But then the routine altered again, and I think this time it was my fault.  You see, because you're born, you grow, you die.  And I could do nothing to stop this routine.  And I was growing, had grown, and one day when he hit me I was big enough to hit back.

Now, he is human, and he knows it's wrong.  The person who finally jumps from the bridge knows on the drive up what they're doing is wrong, but they do it anyway.  So the first time I hit him back, he didn't do anything.  He walked away.  And I thought that this would help.  Maybe it would stop now.

I hit him back again the next time he hit me.  And he walked away again.  I hadn't realized I had sealed my own fate.  Because I had just proved that I wasn't going to allow him to use me anymore to boast his confidence that is practically non existent since his high school sweetheart walked out on him.  At least, I wouldn't allow him to do it that way.

After that, I was around the age of thirteen, he came into my room at night.  I was supposed to be asleep, and I didn't want him to get mad so I kept my eyes shut and waited to see what was going on.

He sat down beside my bed, and reached under my blanket, and touched me in a way that I hadn't been touched yet.  Shocked and appalled, my eyes flew open and stared at the back of his head.  

I didn't want this to happen, didn't want to believe it would, so I closed my eyes again, and tried to pretend that it wasn't him.  Not my father.  I tried to picture a certain sexy hand from school down there.  Anybody but my own father.

This was apparently not a good idea, because I became aroused at the combination of the feeling and the thought, and it led me to also become aware of who it actually was.  And all I could do, frozen to my bed, was watch in horror as my own father stroked me.  

Release didn't fill me with a warm feeling of pleasure like it had the few times I had tried this myself.  Instead cold guilt and disgust wallowed inside me, filling and seeping into every nook and cranny that existed in my body.  Probably no amount of cleansing will ever be able to get them all.

He grabbed some tissues off the bedside table and cleaned me off in a loving, affectionate matter, and it made me sick.  I wasn't angry, I didn't hate him, I felt ill.  Minutes after he left the room, I emptied the contents of my stomach into the trash can, and then again when I realized that I had just thrown up on the tissues that he had used.

_I've been molested_ my mind repeated, over and over.  I hadn't even processed the 'by my father' portion yet.  I sat on the floor by the can shuddering, inviting the numbness that arrived to take over my mind and heart.  

~*

On my fifteenth birthday, I received my first date, my first kiss, and my first boyfriend.  I'd known I was gay since I was a little under twelve, so it was something I had always taken pride in, because it was unmarked by my father.

Seto Kaiba.  It was ironic.  We'd spent the past year biting each other's heads off, and I always rationalized it that he reminded me of my father.  But it wasn't true, and I had always known that.  The truth was, neither of us knew how to show the other our affection.  Seto, trained not to feel, and I, forced to stop feeling.

It was Yugi who was able to bring us together.  Either he, or his darker half, saw past our charades to our true feelings, or maybe Seto confessed to him.  I've never asked.  It was the best birthday I'd ever had.  For a few warm hours, my father, my secrets, my never healing wounds, seemed to dissolve into the air.  We spent the entire day getting to know each other better, the pieces of each other's personalities that weren't shown while screaming at each other.

We eventually wound up down by the beach.  As we were sitting there in the soft sand, he suddenly got up on his knees and turned to me.  "Katsuya," he said, and I started at the use of my first name.  I almost wanted to smack him for it, because only _he _ever calls me that, and I didn't want to associate my new boyfriend with my father.  But I didn't move, and he stared into my eyes while he continued.  "I thought for a long time about what I wanted to get you for your birthday."

I started again at that.  Both that he knew it was my birthday, as I hadn't mentioned it, and that he had gotten me something.  "And I realized," he went on, leaning closer to me, "that I could buy you whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted."  He paused and took a deep breath, and most of my attention was on how close we were.  I didn't know if I should be terrified or excited.

"So today, I wanted to give you something that can't be bought."  With that he leaned forward and gave me my, and his, first kiss.  It was soft, hesitant, and in my affection starved mind, completely perfect.

He took me home that night.  He walked me to the door.  He kissed me good night, and I felt that this life that I had grown so weary of, was finally worth the effort.  

A week and four days later, Dad found out I had a boyfriend from somebody at work.  Even though he was only fifteen, not very much in Seto's life was sacred, and the fact that he had a boyfriend didn't go unreported long.  

Dad's remaining sanity crumbled before my eyes.  The man I used to know, had helped conceive me, died.  That night, the man who used to be my father raped me.

~*

Which is how I got here, a week and four days short of a year later.  I turn sixteen today, and Seto wants me to come over, and I have to find some excuse not to go.

I feel awful for it, because today is also our one year anniversary.  A full year since he gave me my first kiss, and I still won't let him do anything else.

He never says anything about it, he never has to.  We'll be alone together, and his lips will fall from mine to kiss my neck, and his hands will come up to my waist, fingertips going up my shirt.  I know all he wants to do is touch me, and I want to let him like any sane teenager, but I always pull away.  He'll sigh softly through his nose, and wrap his arms back around my waist, pulling me close and kissing my lips again, almost as if he's apologizing.  

And in these moments, I hate my father with every fiber of my being.  I don't hate him when he's in my bedroom uninvited, I hate him when he's affecting my life outside of home.

It's not that I'm afraid of touch.  No, I crave it.  I want to be held and loved more then anything.  But touch, only leads to more touch, which will eventually lead to sex.  I'm not afraid of sex either, really.  But if we were to start having sex, Seto would find out.

Some days, it's all I can do to not scream it to everybody that walks past.  But if Seto finds out, he'll want to help.  And he would.  He'd get me out of there, I'd never have to see my father again.  But I'd have nowhere else to go, so Seto would take me in.  And then, it wouldn't matter if I slept with half the school, he'd never leave me.  He'd envelope me in the same fierce protection that he gives his younger brother, and I would eventually grow to hate him for it.  But by that point, I would owe him so much, I would never do anything about it, and we would be stuck.  Once in love and forced out of it, only to be stuck together.

And I won't do that to us.  Two more years.  Maybe only one if I can get away with it.  As long as he doesn't find out, everything will be fine, and a few years down the road I'll confess everything to him and all my other friends, get some extensive therapy, and life will be fine.

If I survive that long.

I'm sixteen now, at least I think I was born in early morning.  Sixteen, and there's a smell in the air that I hate, my sheets are all torn off the mattress, and there's a mess between my legs that isn't mine.  Sixteen today.

My morning routine is a little different then it was last year.  You see, now I shower in the morning.

~*

I went to him anyway.  I couldn't do that to him.  I just… couldn't.  I rang the bell, listening to it chime softly and it was Mokuba who opened the door.  "You know, Jou, you can just walk in, nobody will stop you."

I shrugged and walked in, grabbing the kid in a one armed hug on my way past.  He grumbled in protest but grinned all the same.

"Seto?" I called.  He was never far from the door when he was expecting me.

"In here, Jou."  He only calls me Katsuya when we're being intimate.  I still haven't decided if I like this or not.  I wonder if I would prefer he used it all the time, or never at all.  I followed his voice into another room.  Who knows what the room was.  It was just one more in the huge place, one without a real name.

"You made it," he said with a grin.  I smiled back, squirming slightly with guilt that I had been trying to figure out how to avoid coming only and hour before.  "Here," he tossed something at me.

It was a swimsuit, and I knew from the way the smile was fixed on his face we were going to the beach.  And for a moment, I was too happy to be worried.

We reached the beach and I dug my bare toes into the sand and breathed in the salty air.  I felt at home on the beach, I always had.  There was nobody else on this section, made of privately owned homes.  Seto walked up behind me and I turned to face him.  "Let's swim."

"Whatever you want, Jou."

I didn't need to be told twice.  I dived into the water and was fifteen feet out before Seto reached the shore.  I wasn't surprised when he sat down in the sand, allowing the waves to only lick his toes.

After releasing a huge amount of my energy and my anxiety into the water, I fought my way out of the waves to collapse beside Seto.

"Done?" he questioned.

"For now," I replied with a grin.  "Taking a breather."

He turned in the sand and leaned over me, an arm on each side of my head, and my heart sped up at the feeling of being trapped.  I know Seto would never hurt me, but that didn't change the fact that I _hated_ feeling trapped.

"Katsuya," he whispered, reaching up to brush a lock of hair out of my face.  "You're so beautiful."

I managed not to snicker, but I couldn't help the grin that split my face.  "Trying to be romantic?"

He smiled at me softly.  God, he has a nice smile.  "It's not working, is it?" 

"Not really, so why don't you just kiss me and we'll skip that part?"

He chuckled and leaned down, and his lips met mine in one of my favorite routines.  The way we kiss.  Neither of us dominates the other, nor do we fight for it.  It's just a soft, consensual dance, always a little different, but so comfortingly familiar.  

He shifted his weight from his hands to his elbows, pressing his sun warmed chest against my cool damp one.  A pleased noise escaped my throat at the contrast. I couldn't help it.  How I craved this, the love, the touch.  The affection I had been denied all my life.  I reached up and wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer and holding him tight.  His weight was pinning me down and I knew I was trapped, but his tongue and his skin kept me from paying the fact too much mind.  I felt his hands tangle into my wet hair. His lips fell from mine to slid down my jaw line.  This led him to my neck and with a start I realized where this routine was going.

"Seto," I managed to gasp.  "Seto, stop, stop," but I didn't really want him to.  I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to kill my father, but mostly I didn't want Seto to stop what he was doing.  "Seto, no.  Stop."

But he didn't.  His lips traveled lower to my chest.  And suddenly, it was all different.  Because even though I hadn't wanted him to stop, I had told him to, and he hadn't.  I _did_ want him to stop.  Too many times this had happened against my will, against my wishes.  Not with Seto.  Not with the only bright spot I had left.  It wouldn't be tainted. 

"Seto stop!" I shouted, using my arms to push him away by the shoulders.  He sat up and stared at me.

"Katsuya, I-"

"You didn't stop," I panted, glaring at him as anger built.

I think it was the first time I've seen him scared.  "I- I'm sorry.  I didn't, I thought you didn't want me to."

I sat up, not wanting to feel vulnerable anymore, and pulled out from under him.  "Why would I tell you to if I didn't mean it?" I demanded, scrambling to my feet.

"Katsuya, Jou, I'm sorry.  Please."  He stood and moved toward me.  "It's just, you always enjoy it, and you always stop.  I thought you were just nervous.  I thought if I-"

"Well you thought wrong!" I spat, turning and heading toward the car, trying not to run.

"Jou, don't.  Stop, please."

"Yeah, Seto, how does it feel?"  I kept going, opening the car door and slamming it behind me.  I glared at the windshield, not really seeing what was beyond it.  I didn't want to think.  Right now, I just wanted to be angry.  

After a moment, the other door opened and Seto climbed into the drivers seat, started the car and pulled out.

~*

Mokuba padded barefoot into the kitchen where I was currently pretending to read the paper.  "Jou, why are you and Seto mad at each other?"  The drive home had been long and very quiet.  We hadn't spoken yet, but I hadn't left.  I never did when we fought.  Leaving didn't solve anything.  My mother left and it didn't solve anything.

He had to know I wasn't reading.  I don't ever read the paper.  I rarely read.  Mokuba had come to see me as a type of brother.  Nothing like how he saw Seto.  To Mokuba, Seto was a parent.  I'd become the brother, crossed with the cool parent that lets you stay up past bedtime.  He was a good kid, if a little spoiled.

"It's nothing, Mokuba."

"But he's locked himself in his office and won't come out.  What are you fighting about? Isn't it your anniversary?" 

I closed the paper and stood.  I was still fuming and my temper was short, but it wasn't Mokuba's fault.  It wasn't his fault I was denying Seto something he should have been allowed to have.  Not his fault that my father, my own fucking father, was keeping me from being with my boyfriend.  Hell, it wasn't Seto's fault either.  Maybe all my reasoning was bullshit.  Maybe I was just scared.  Afraid of touch, afraid of sex.

"You should talk to him, Jou! You shouldn't fight today, no matter what!"

"Mokuba, this isn't your business, so stay out of it," I snapped.  

"But he's _my _brother!  And you're my friend!"

"Mokuba, stay out of it."

"No!  I won't!"

I heard it before I knew what I was doing.  The smack of skin on skin.  I froze, as Mokuba's hand flew up to his red cheek and he stared at me, shocked.  I took a step back, cradling the offending hand as if it burned, and it did.  "Moku, I'm so sorry."

Mokuba blinked.  "You hit me," he whispered, his eyes still wide.

"Oh God," I choked, lunching foreword and pulling Mokuba against me.  "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."  I stroked his hair, feeling my eyes start to burn as tears began to well.  Mokuba didn't react, still shocked at my actions.

I got down on my knees, hugging him tightly.  "I'm sorry Mokuba.  And tell Seto, tell him, God just tell him I'm sorry."  I was becoming choked up, and I let him go.  I turned before he could meet my eyes, and didn't bother pretending to walk.  I ran from the house, and slammed it behind him.

~*

I lay on my bed in my room, listening to my phone ring.  Seto had bought me my own, after he got fed up with my father hanging up on him.  

"You've reached Jou's machine, because you can't reach Jou.  Leave a message after the beep," my machine repeated.

"Jou, please pick up.  Please Jou, I know you're there.  Look, Mokuba told me what happened.  It's okay, really.  We all lose our temper at some point.  Please pick up, Jou.  He's not mad at you, neither am I.  We both forgive you, just _please_ pick up," he paused, as if waiting.  "I'm not going to work today, please call me."

I turned over in bed, burying my face into the pillow so that I wouldn't cry again.  I couldn't go back to them.  I couldn't ever go back to them.

There's this routine that life sometimes follows.  A man gets married, has a few kids.  Then he totally fucks up his whole life, or doesn't accomplish what he wanted with his life, or for some reason becomes deeply unhappy.  And so, he takes it out on his kid.  He hits them, beats them.  And the kid even knows it's wrong, but he grows up, and has a kid of his own, and beats them too.  Even if he knew.  And life goes on following it's routine.

And I was no exception.  I'd proved it today.  I'd hit him, without thinking, without realizing it.  I was mad, and I hit him.  I knew none of it was his fault, and I still hit him.  I was just following the routine that life was.  What if it got even worse, and I became not only an abusive father figure, but an abusive lover as well?  

I refuse to do it.  I refuse to follow.  I'm going to break the routine.  But I don't trust myself.  The only way I can be sure, would be to not give myself the opportunity to repeat the routine.

And so when the phone rang again, I didn't answer.

"You've reached Jou's machine, because you can't reach Jou.  Leave a message after the beep."

"Jou?" came Mokuba's soft voice.  "I, I'm sorry I made you mad.  I know you didn't mean to hit me.  Really.  But, um, Seto's really upset.  He's locked himself in the den.  Please come home."

I cringed.  It was one thing when Seto locked himself in the office.  All that meant was he would plunge himself into his work until he stopped being angry.  But when he locked himself in the den, it was a whole other story.  That meant Seto intended to get drunk.

But he would be fine.  Seto doesn't attach himself too hard to anything except Mokuba.  He didn't need me, and he could easily find somebody else that would let him past first base.  He didn't really need me, and he never had.

The reason I couldn't stop crying was how badly I needed him.  I needed _somebody_.

And it cut deep that Mokuba called it my home too.

~*

The canned soup made an unpleasant plop as it landed in the pot.  I tried not to think about all the chemicals that had to be swimming around in the pale white substance as I added a can of milk to it and turned the burner on.

I heard the door open, and started to glare at the pot as though it held something much more offending then condensed soup.

"I'm home Jou, what are you doing?" he asked as he walked in the kitchen.

Dad had two ways of dealing with the time he wasn't violating me or beating me.  He A; completely ignored me, or B; acted like nothing ever happened.  Today was probably going to be a B day, but I preferred A.

"Cooking," I said slowly so it wouldn't sound like the snap I wanted it to be.

"How was your birthday?"  He sounded so sincere.  So much like the father I used to have.  I was losing it, and I knew it.  But I'd run out of reasons to hold on.

"It sucked, thanks for asking."

He paused.  "Do you want to talk about it?"

I could have laughed aloud if I hadn't been angry enough to kill.  My father, my sexually abusive father, trying to act out one of those commercials that remind you to talk to your kids or they'll get guns and start shooting people.

"If you want to know, sure."  I slammed the spoon down and whipped around.  I was breaking a routine here.  "Because you rape me all the time, I can't let my boyfriend touch me, and he wanted to make love to me on the beach for my birthday.  And I had to run away.  And because you beat me all the time, I smacked his younger brother without even thinking.  So congratulations Dad, my life is now just as fucked as yours.  That was the goal wasn't it?"

He walked past me to the cupboard, taking out two bowls and setting them on the table.  "I'm going to go catch the news, call me out when it's hot."

I stared at his back, rage building.  This was not how it was supposed to work!  He was supposed to hit me!  He was supposed to smack me so hard my world would spin and then rape me so brutally it would burn for days!  He wasn't supposed to turn around and act like he couldn't hear me.  He wasn't supposed to pretend that it didn't happen.  He was supposed to be horrible to me for bringing it up.

I grabbed the bowls off the table and chucked them at the floor, where the ceramic broke into large pieces.  But there was no noise from the other room, like he hadn't even heard it.  "I HATE YOU!"  I wanted to burst.  And had to resort to screaming and slamming the door as I stormed out. 

Once outside, I ran.  The anger and betrayal burned in me, with no outlet and nothing to calm it.  The type of anger that will only fade with pain or distraction.  And I had just left my only distraction that afternoon.

I headed for the rough part of town.  A single teenager full of anger didn't go unprovoked long there.  Somebody would show up, and I could either beat the shit out of someone and release my angry energy, or get the shit beat out of me and find distraction in the pain.

When I did finally go home that night, the smashed bowls had vanished, and there was a bowl of long cold soup sitting on the table, beside a small chocolate birthday cake with sixteen candles.  Growling, I hurled the cake against the wall, praying that it would stain.  I needed evidence.  When you walked in this apartment, when you looked at my face, you needed to _know!_  I wanted the whole world to have to see it.

I slammed my bedroom door only to hear it open again.

~*

Morning.  I hate mornings more then nights.  My rage had calmed from fury to a sick sensation that infested every pore of my being.  I hadn't slept a wink.  I almost managed to get through the morning without breaking anything, until I caught my reflection in the bathroom.  I had a black eye, from the street fight or my father I couldn't really be sure, but either was still his fault.  The mirror didn't survive my black eye.

My back burned, and I knew I was limping as I walked to school.  It never occurred to me that I probably looked like I'd just been run over by a sixteen wheeler.  

Halfway there I had to stop, I hurt too much.  I leaned against a garden wall and tried to look like I was stalling so I wouldn't have to go to school.  My mind was mostly numb, and I avoided thinking.

I managed to walk the rest of the way to school, and although I knew I was already late, I needed to stop again before walking in the classroom.  I pushed open the bathroom door, expecting it to be empty, but there was already several boys there.  Now there's only one reason that boys would meet in a bathroom during class, and that's drugs.

"Hey, aren't you that fag Kaiba's fuckin'?" one of the shorter ones commented.

"Ah, fuck off Sneet, he's gonna be better off then you in the end with a millionaire on his ass," a second snickered.

"Man, you look like shit, need a hit?"

I didn't even hesitate, nodding and accepting the offered joint.  "What's your name anyway?"

"Jou," I muttered, leaning against the wall and allowing my mind to numb even farther with each intake.  It was exactly what I needed, an escape.

~*

The pain was gone now.  Well, I didn't feel hurt anymore, just angry, but I was still limping, though my eye no longer stung.  Mostly I was just angry.  It was like a boiling liquid inside me, threatening to boil over.  But it was easier to just be angry then have to think.

My feet knew the way to my classroom, I didn't have to think to get there.  I opened the door and walked in, and all eyes turned to me.  Did they know?  They should.  Everybody should know, they should be able to see it.  I wouldn't let him ruin my life anymore, not without anybody noticing.

I started to walk toward my desk, when a sharp call penetrated my numb skull.  "Jounouchi Katsuya!"

I whipped around to face her, startled.  "Didn't you hear me the first time?" she demanded.  I dumbly shook my head.  "Why are you late and why are you limping?" she asked, obviously angry.  

Didn't she _know?_  Couldn't she _tell?_  _Why not?_  It should be obvious!  I continued to stare at her, shocked and appalled that she needed to ask.

"Well? Are you going to answer my question, or should I send you straight to the office and you can tell them there?"

A threat I could react to.  I glared at her harshly, and saw her expression become rather surprised, because students don't normally look at their professors that way.  "I'm late because I'm limping, genius!" 

"Don't you talk to me that way mis-"

I interrupted her, half because I didn't care to listen, and half because I hadn't really realized she was talking yet.  "I'm limping because I pissed off my father and he raped me again last night."  She would know, they would all know.  I'd wear it on a sign around my neck, just so everybody would know, and it would be okay that I was so fucked up, because I had an excuse.

She glared right back at me.  "I suppose you think that's funny, Jounouchi?"

"You don't fucking believe me?  Yeah, its just hysterical, isn't it?" 

"Jou?" came a voice from behind me, but my mind didn't identify it.  

"I think he's high," somebody else said, and I heard people moving, and two hands grabbed my upper arms.

"No!" I screamed, jerking away.  "Don't touch me!"

"Somebody go get Kaiba!  Across the hall!"

"NO!" I shouted.  There were hands on me, too many hands, holding me back.  There were going to tell Seto.  He'd know.  I'd wanted them to know but not Seto.  Too many hands, too many faces, they were swarming all together.  "Don't touch me!"

"Let him GO!"

"No!" I knew that voice.  I had to run.  The hands were gone, the faces gone, but I knew he was there.  I had to get away.  Seto couldn't know, he couldn't see.

"Katsuya."  Two arms surrounded me.  

"No! Don't touch me! LET ME GO!"  I was trapped.  He wouldn't let me go, and my mind was clearing even as I fought to stay in the place where it didn't hurt anymore.  "No no no!"  Arms, stronger then mine.  Pinning me down.  Holding me in place.  Not again.  Not again, not again.

"Katsuya."

NO!  It wasn't him.  This was Seto.  Seto.  He would never hurt me.  Seto wouldn't do that to me.  "Calm down, Katsuya."  And the world was clearing again.  And it hurt.  

I couldn't get away, and I stopped trying, just like I always did.  There were more voices, Seto was talking to them.  I shuddered violently, slowly understanding where I was, what I had done, and unable to find numbness in my anger.  I wanted it back.  Wanted to be angry again.  But I'd run out of it.

"Katsuya," he whispered.  "Why did you say those things?"

I jerked away from him quickly, and only got away cause he wasn't expecting it.  "Because I'm tired Seto!  I'm tired.  And if everybody knew, then maybe it wouldn't matter anymore.  It would be okay that I get into fights.  It would be okay that my grades are awful.  I would have an excuse.  Mokuba would understand why I hit him, and why I can never see him again.  It would be alright that I can't- I can't let you.  Cause I can't, Seto.  I can't."

"Katsuya, it's okay-"

I shook my head and cut him off.  Because it wasn't, it wasn't okay.  I stared at him, and he moved toward me.  "Stop!"  He listened this time, his arms falling to his sides.  "Don't, don't move."  I slowly moved toward him.  He raised his arms as if to hug me, and I stopped short.  He let his arms fall again.  "Don't move," I repeated.  

He stared at me as I approached slowly.  "Don't move," I whispered once more, as I pressed up against him and nuzzled his cheek.  I could tell he wanted to wrap me in his arms.  He was so warm, so soft.  I wanted him.  It wasn't fair.  I wanted him to be my bright spot.  I would miss him most.  I kissed his cheek once, before moving my lips to his ear.  "I'm sorry Seto.  Goodbye."

"Katsuya, what-"

But I was across the room, and opened the door.  He turned to look at me and I wanted to smile for him, to let him know it was okay, but I couldn't.  So I just stared back at him.  "I told you not to move."  I shut the door behind me, and I was gone.  I'd cut my only tie.   And I ran away.  I broke my routine.

~*

Y.C.C:   -_- don't ask me, I don't know where it came from either…


End file.
